


Sometimes With One I Love

by mimosa-supernova (FourCatProductions)



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Ficlet Collection, Multi, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-09-26 21:58:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/mimosa-supernova
Summary: A collection of ficlets revolving around unrequited love, unexamined possibilities, and the Stardew NPCs we can't romance in-game. Various farmers, various ratings.





	1. 6 AM (M!Farmer/Robin, G)

**Author's Note:**

> "I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,  
> Yet out of that I have written these songs."
> 
> \- Walt Whitman
> 
> Dedicated to everyone who looked at the cast of Stardew and said, "Fuck the twelve people I can marry, I want that one instead."

He brings her coffee before the sun is up, made the way she likes it best – fragrant and bitter, black as the fresh-tilled earth. The lantern burns on a nearby post, the goats still slumbering, and when Robin turns the light from the fire grants her a halo, fuzzy with dust.

“I swear, Bram, you’re a life-saver.”

He smiles and hands over her cup. The rest is in the thermos he brought, steaming on the barrel next to him. “It’s just coffee.”

“I keep telling you, you don’t have to do this every time I come down here.”

“You kidding? It’s the least I can do.” He has a second cup, for appearances, but he doesn’t touch the thermos. Particles of hay and dirt tickle his nose, mingling with the other barn-smells: urine, sawdust, grass. It’s a rush job, and he feels bad calling her down on such short notice, but it can’t be helped. The goat barn has a hole the size of a full-grown man and winter will fall over the valley soon. The air already has teeth. “I’d still be living in a one-room shack if it wasn’t for you.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.” Robin cradles her mug with both hands, breathing in deep. Aside from the crow’s feet and the silver strands threading her hair, she still looks more or less the same as she did a decade ago, waiting to greet him when he stumbled off the bus, a suitcase in either hand and the sun in his eyes. The land had shaped him the same way he rebuilt his grandfather’s farm, piece by piece, until one day he’d looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize himself. Now he can walk and till and plant and build all day without tiring, and the town’s single women give him speculative looks during the Friday night social, but in Robin’s eyes he swears he can still see that boy, scrawny and terrified.

_“Bram?” A callused hand grips his, and he squints up into warm blue eyes the same color as the boundless sky overhead. “I’m Robin. Mayor Lewis sent me to get you.” Her fingers are cool against his palm. “We all loved your grandfather. I’m sorry for your loss.”_

 

“ – but with Demetrius’s grant work drying up and Maru going off to grad school, things have been a little tighter than usual.” She’s talking to him. With some effort, he pulls himself back to the present, and she lowers the mug with a wink. His heart perks up like a dog begging for scraps. “Let’s just say I appreciate the steady work.”

“I’m considering another barn come spring,” Bram says, unthinking. Robin’s eyebrows lift towards her hairline.

“Another one?”

“Why not?” He has the room. Anyone who comes to visit inevitably marvels at the size of it all – the individual barns for the cows and the goats, the coops full of ducks and chickens and angora rabbits, the thriving orchard, the greenhouse bursting with exotic fruits and flowers and pollinated by his bees year-round, the farmstead where he lives, alone in a house big enough for ten. “Marnie’s been after me to raise pigs for a while now. Seems like as good a time as any to give it a try.”

His words used to belong to the city, quick and precise, sharp with nervous energy. Ten years of country living have softened them to a drawl, the same way the valley cracked open the shell of his heart to reveal the soft meat underneath. Robin shakes her head, but her eyes are already lighting up with thoughts of measurements and location and color schemes, and he knows then that come spring there will be a new barn. He’ll chop down the orchard or uproot the garden if he has to.

“I can’t imagine why you’d want to take on a whole new crop of animals. A place this size is too big for one person to run.”

“I have help.” Once Joja-Mart closed, he’d hired Sam and Shane as part-time farmhands. They never talked about it, but he got the sense they liked working for him better than Morris, at least – the man had been a nightmare in Joja’s last weeks. “Besides, everyone pitches in with the harvest, and that’s my busiest time of year.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She sets down the mug and picks up her hammer again, hesitating. “When you first moved here, none of us were sure you’d even stay, but once you settled in… I guess we all sort of expected that you might find someone. Get married, have a couple of kids, that kind of thing. But…”

“I never did.”

“No,” she agrees. Her face softens. “I’m sorry, Bram. I’m not trying to pry. It’s just that you’re such a nice boy, and I hate to see you all alone out here, away from everyone else.”

“I’m not alone.” He pats the beam of the stall next to him, where his favorite goat Yaya sleeps. She bleats a little but doesn’t wake. “I have the animals, and I have my friends. That’s all I need.”

Robin smiles, but it’s her fake smile, the one that doesn’t make her face shine. She’s not convinced. “There’s really nobody in our little town that ever caught your eye?”

_“Oh, Bram! I want you to meet someone.” Her smile is the sun. He shrivels, wordless, beneath its heat. “This is my husband Demetrius. Honey, this is Bram, Henry’s grandson. He just moved in.”_

_Demetrius shakes his hand, grip firm. “Pleasure to meet you.”_

_“The pleasure’s all mine,” Bram says. It’s the first of many lies._

“Like I said. Farm’s all I really need.” He collects both mugs and the thermos. The horizon line is growing softer. Soon it’ll be dawn. “You worry too much.”

“It’s in my nature,” Robin says cheerfully, and picks up another board. “I’ll be out of your hair in an hour or so.”

“Take your time,” Bram says, even though he knows she won’t. Robin is nothing if not ruthlessly efficient; she’ll be gone before he’s done tending to the animals. “I’ll get you some goat cheese for the road. New batch just finished up last night.”

“Bram, really, there’s no need for you to do all that.”

“I insist,” he tells her, and she gives in and waves him off, pink-cheeked. The steady rhythm of her hammer fades as he ducks out of the barn and heads for the main house, soil clinging to his boots. A hunk of freshly packaged goat cheese goes into a wicker basket in the kitchen, and after a moment’s consideration he adds a few other gifts – a container of pumpkin soup for Sebastian, copper and quartz for Maru, rice pudding for Demetrius made with goat’s milk. Each one is an apology to her family for all the times he’d wished they didn’t exist. He sets it aside and looks out the window.

Sunrise crawls over the mountains, buttery-gold and pink as a fairy rose. Any second now, the familiar hiss and click of the sprinklers will come on, sputtering to life, and the last of his stolen moments will slip away. He’ll milk the cows and goats and collect eggs and wool from the coops, check the trees for fruit, water the plants in the greenhouse and weed the outdoor garden, and somewhere along the line Robin will take her gifts and paycheck and disappear back up into the mountains. The next time he sees her, she’ll be dancing with her husband at the saloon like she does every Friday, looking at him like he’s the only man in the world. Bram would ask her, if he weren’t such a coward. _Look at me,_ he would say, not caring who heard. _Just once, look at me like I’m not that boy anymore, suitcases in my hands and the sun in my eyes._

_Look at me instead._

The clock strikes six. The day begins.


	2. The Offer (F!Farmer/Caroline, T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail wants the farmer's help, but Lonnie's motives aren't entirely altruistic.

There’s a smear of jam at the corner of Abigail’s mouth. Lonnie tries to draw her attention to it, but the gesture goes unnoticed. “Do you see a lot of them down there? In the mines, I mean.”

Lonnie blinks. “A lot of what?”

“ _Monsters_. Duh.” Abigail’s eyes shine as she scoots closer, her slice of pie untouched on the table between them. Lonnie’s portion had been demolished several minutes earlier. “How often do you get to fight them? Are they scarier the further down you go?”

“Oh. Uh. It depends.” She picks up her fork, then puts it down again. “The first few levels are okay, but on the lower levels the insect and slime populations can get pretty aggressive, and you start to see, um… other things. You’re technically supposed to patrol in pairs or groups, but there aren’t enough of us to do that anymore.” Marlon had been forced to come pull her out of the mines the other week, half-dead and freezing, but she isn’t about to bring that up. There’s nothing impressive about being knocked unconscious by a gang of soot sprites. “But as long as you’re prepared and well-equipped, it’s usually not too bad.”

Abigail twists around in her chair. “See, Mom? Lonnie says it’s not that dangerous.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say ‘not dangerous’, but – “

“Lonnie is a professional,” Caroline says from her spot at the kitchen counter, where she’s peeling potatoes into the sink. She pauses long enough to toss a smile Lonnie’s way. “And a thoughtful one at that. Thank you again for the flowers, they’re lovely.”

Lonnie’s cheeks burn. The bouquet of summer spangle sits in the vase on the counter, a vibrant mass of pink and gold with one perfect blue beauty in its center. She isn’t much of a farmer – she lacks the patience to nurture animals or crops the way her grandfather once did – but she’d managed to eek out a flowerbed in front of the cabin with some help from Evelyn and an almanac on caring for seasonal plants. She’d barely been able to look Pierre in the eyes when she’d come through to buy seeds and fertilizer.

“I could be a professional if you let me join the Guild,” Abigail argues. “I’ve been old enough to take the Trial for over a year, and you heard what Lonnie said. They need more members.” Under the table, her calf brushes against Lonnie’s. Her skin is warm from the sunlight pouring into the kitchen. Lonnie starts, and Caroline shakes her head, dropping the peeled potato into a bowl. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, the same lustrous shade of green as the chunks of jade Lonnie finds in the mines sometimes. Does Caroline like jade? She’ll have to ask around.

“We’ve been through this, Abigail, and the answer is still no. You’re not ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“If you’d just – “

“Abigail.” Caroline’s voice takes on a stern edge. “Drop it. You’re making poor Lonnie uncomfortable.”

“Ugh, _Mom_ – “

“It’s fine,” Lonnie says hastily, before Abigail can fly all the way off the handle. She looks down at her hands, callused and scarred, at her bulging knuckles and the dirt itching under her nails. They’re like the rest of her, big and awkward and most at home in the earth and the dark, slaying monsters and digging deeper (digging not for gold, not for treasure, but just to see what’s _there_ ). Here at Caroline’s table, with her delicate plates and beautiful home, she feels like she could break something at any given moment. She’s out of place. Abigail is too, and maybe that’s why she’s taken to following Lonnie around like a lost puppy and inviting her over for lunch, but that’s the difference between them. Abigail _wants_ to stand out. Lonnie wants to belong. She wants to come home to somewhere that’s not a run-down cabin with shabby walls that close in on her when she sleeps. She wants to fill a beautiful home with bunches of summer spangle and bury her face in soft green hair. But she’s also promised to help Abigail plead her case, and backing down now might mean she can’t come over anymore. She breathes out through her nose. “So, I was thinking… what if I took Abigail on patrol with me tomorrow night? I’m supposed to collect some copper for Clint to survey, and I could use someone to watch my back while I’m digging.”

Caroline opens her mouth, but Abigail whoops and pumps her fist in the air, drowning out anything she might say. “Yes! Mom, c’mon, please? Please please _please_ say yes.” She turns on the puppy dog eyes, big and brown and eager. “It’ll be way less dangerous if I have Lonnie with me.”

“We’ll stay in the upper levels,” Lonnie adds, trying to smooth out the worry line between Caroline’s perfect brows. “I have a sword and shield she can borrow, and I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to her. You have my word on that.”

It takes a few more seconds of stony silence, but Caroline cracks, even as unhappiness stains her eyes.

“Fine. You can go on _one_ patrol. But you’ll do exactly what Lonnie tells you to do, and you’ll come home immediately afterwards. No throwing yourself into fights or trying to go further into the mine. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mother,” Abigail says, but the sarcastic façade only lasts for a moment before she flings her arms around Lonnie’s neck with a joyous squeal. “Thank you! This is so awesome!” She lets go and bounds over to Caroline to do the same, then bolts out of the kitchen, presumably to go relay the news to Sam and Sebastian. Silence blankets the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Lonnie says after an excruciating pause. “I wasn’t trying to overstep. Honest.”

“If it wasn’t you, she’d have talked someone else into it eventually.” Caroline’s smile is wan. She sets the peeler on the cutting board. “Abigail’s always been stubborn, like her father. That’s why they butt heads the way they do.” She has the look of someone who is Definitely Going to Cry about her, and Lonnie starts to panic because this is Definitely Her Fault but she’s also terrible at comforting people. Her hands go stiff and clumsy and her brain whirrs like a broken fan and she never knows what to say.

(It’s not _please don’t cry_. She learned that one the hard way.)

“I cleared out the first ten floors or so pretty thoroughly this week,” she says, trying not to sound desperate. “There won’t be hardly anything creeping around. She’ll probably get bored after a couple hours of watching me dig up ore.”

She can’t see Caroline’s face, but she can see the rest of her, her hands gripping the edge of the sink, her bowed head, the taut line of her back. She reminds Lonnie of the translucent crystals that decorate the coldest parts of the mine – beautiful and rigid, ready to shatter with a single touch.

“It’s not that.” Her shoulders tremble. “It’s just. I can’t remember the last time my daughter hugged me. Let alone my hus – “

Her sentence cuts off abruptly. A little hiccup of a sob catches the tail end. Lonnie still has no idea what she’s supposed to be doing, but she finds herself getting out of her chair all the same, wiping her sweaty palms on her shirt. Caroline is so much smaller than her, and infinitely more delicate; when Lonnie’s arms fold around her, it’s like cradling a bird, and she’s never thought of herself as someone built for tenderness but right then she wants more than anything to be soft. She holds Caroline like she’s one of her fine china plates.

Caroline’s voice is small, and her heart knocks against Lonnie’s where their bodies are joined, separated by muscle and skin and fat and bone. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Lonnie admits, just as quietly. “Kind of seemed like you could use a hug.”

An uneasy laugh escapes Caroline’s lips. Neither of them moves. Lonnie’s heart thunders, loud enough she’s afraid the whole house can hear it. When she looks down, Caroline’s hair brushes her cheek. It’s soft and she doesn’t know if it’s shampoo or perfume or the pie, but Caroline smells good, and without really thinking about it she presses her face against all that softness and breathes deep. Caroline twists around in her arms, cheeks tear-stained. Her fingers curl in the fabric of Lonnie’s shirt.

Is she doing this comfort thing correctly, Lonnie wonders? She can’t tell. Not when she herself is so far from comfortable – heart pounding hands sweating mouth dry _what now?_ – but the way Caroline looks at her is enough to keep her from pulling away, fingers interlocked at the small of Caroline’s back. Maybe she should, but she wants another few, selfish seconds of this before it inevitably crumbles away. _Not yet. Please, not yet._ Caroline’s grip tightens.

“Lonnie,” she starts, and Abigail’s voice rings out in the hall.

“Lonnie!”

They don’t quite spring apart, but it’s close. Caroline smooths at her hair and dress, though neither of them is mussed in the slightest, and Lonnie stumbles back so fast she almost trips over one of the kitchen chairs. She wishes she knew what the look in Caroline’s eyes means. Fear? Shame? Relief? Anxiety twists her insides with a cruel, hot hand. She’d fucked up, overstepped somehow; after all, why would someone like Caroline want a lumbering oaf of a woman like Lonnie pawing at her? She shoves her hands in her pockets, and Abigail pops into view, practically vibrating with excitement.

“You ready to go? I want to take a look at this sword and shield you’re letting me borrow.”

“Yeah. Um.” Lonnie stoops, picks up her pack. She’s afraid to look at Caroline again. “We can go. Thanks for lunch.”

“Be home by dark,” Caroline says. Lonnie glances at her out of the corner of her eye. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter, perfectly composed except for the faint flush on her cheeks. It could have been from anything. It could have been the heat. “Thank you again for the flowers, Lonnie. Feel free to drop by any time.”

“Yeah, okay, sounds good,” Abigail says, clearly only half-listening, and tugs on Lonnie’s arm. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Bye,” Lonnie says, because she can’t think of anything else, and lets herself be led out of the house. Abigail chatters at her side, their arms linked as she steers them towards the path out of town and back to the farm, her words washing over Lonnie like so much static on her grandfather’s ancient TV. They’re not _really_ going to just mine for copper, are they? What kind of monsters are they going to see? Is Lonnie sure they can’t venture down a little further, just to see what’s there?

Lonnie smiles and nods, neither promising nor denying anything. Her thoughts are full of golden summer spangles braided into jade-green hair, spread wild across her pillow.

She is _so_ screwed.


	3. Loneliness (M!Farmer/Jodi, M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is about infidelity. Some people don't enjoy reading about it, so here's your warning. Proceed accordingly.

In winter, only loneliness flowers.

Nature never really died, Jodi’s mother had told her when she was younger. The trees, the grass, the frozen lake – they only slumbered, their hearts still beating under the snow. She used to find it comforting back then, laying on the ground with her limbs splayed wide, listening for the sluggish pulse of the earth. Now she loathes winter. Winter is when Kent kissed her goodbye and shipped out, leaving his family behind. Spring has come and gone three times since then. Jodi runs errands and looks after the house, goes to Caroline’s aerobics classes every Tuesday afternoon, kisses her sons goodbye in the mornings and hello in the evenings, but at her core she never really thaws. _I’m tired,_ she says to Caroline when they sit together in the town square, and Caroline nods and says _I know._ It’s not the same, not really, but she knows what it’s like to miss a husband. Pierre is so distant sometimes that he might as well be over in Gotoro with Kent, fighting the good fight.

(Jodi doesn’t know if it’s really a good fight, but she has to imagine it is. Why else would he leave her?)

She doesn’t resent him. It might be easier if she did, but he’s only doing what he believes is right, is _necessary_ , to keep the horrors of war from seeping into Pelican Town and infecting them all. It would be a convenient excuse, resentment.

“Look!” Vincent tugs her hand, pointing at the trees clustered around the bend in the road, right before Cindersap swallows it up. Red and gold leaves drift to the ground, shivering. “That means it’s gonna be winter soon, right?”

In her heart of hearts, her deepest and most selfish of places, Jodi loves Vincent just a little bit more than everyone else. She loves Sam, of course she does, looking more like his father all the time but wilder than Kent ever was with his starry-eyed dreams and boundless energy, and she’s loved her husband since she was sixteen, but Vincent is _her_ boy, soft and sweet and full of wonder, like she was before life sapped it away. He giggles when she ruffles his hair. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

“I hope it snows soon.” Vincent loves snow. “Miss Penny said if we’re good and finish our unit this week, she’ll help us build a snowman at the festival this year. I did all my reading today.”

“Good job! Keep it up, and I’m sure Miss Penny will show you and Jas how to make an amazing snowman.”

“Will you make one with me too?”

Her heart aches. “Of course I will.”

She drops him off at the ranch – Marnie had generously offered to host his and Jas’s sleepover this time, to give Jodi a break – then cuts up the path to the old farmstead, brittle leaves crunching underfoot. Sam is out with Sebastian and Abigail, and won’t be back until late. The fences surrounding Brightfield are weathered, but the sign is new, carved out of rosewood and hammered onto the post by the mailbox. She’d had it commissioned from Robin last month, “to thank Farmer Bolton for all he’s done for us”. She wonders now if Robin knows, or at least suspects. Caroline does, but they share everything, and Caroline has secrets of her own. A violent gust of wind sweeps past. Jodi turns up the collar of her jacket and hurries on.

Daniel opens the door before she even knocks, smelling like herbs and woodsmoke. She never calls ahead, but he always seems to know when she’s coming anyway, and she tucks herself into his big arms as soon as she steps over the threshold. He shuts the door behind her.

“Cold out tonight.”

Jodi doesn’t tell him that she’s always cold. She burrows into his broad chest and soft belly, breathing him in. He always holds her like he’s not quite sure what to do with her, his eyes a little lost, and she likes that, likes that she flusters him, that she still has that kind of effect on a man after two kids and twenty years of marriage. She stretches up on tip-toe and kisses his warm mouth.

“I made dinner,” he says.

“Later,” she says.

Daniel knows loneliness. Like her, it lives in his bones, though he has yet to share its roots. Maybe he doesn’t trust her with it. She can’t exactly blame him. A fire crackles in the hearth, and he stretches out over her and kisses her deep while he undresses her, rough hand sliding between her legs. He’s an intense man, Daniel, a man on few words and singular focus, and it’s almost unbearable when he commits that focus to learning her – her body, her favorite foods, her schedule, her past. Tonight, she basks in it, spread out on the plush rug while he replaces his fingers with his mouth. He rarely asks her to reciprocate. Sometimes she has to push him away, oversensitive, or beg him to fuck her, he gets so absorbed in her pleasure. His beard scratches her thighs, but his lips and tongue are soft. She cries out, legs trembling. On the farm, she can be as loud as she wants.

Afterwards, they sit at his table and eat the crispy bass and vegetable medley he made, him in his boxers and Jodi drowning in his flannel shirt. Like everything he cooks, it’s delicious, which only makes her feel worse in the light of her fading afterglow. She’s told him he doesn’t have to do this every time she comes over, but he just shrugs her off and says cooking for one gets boring. She makes herself finish it, even as her stomach churns, and when she’s done, she puts down her fork and folds her hands in her lap.

“Kent’s tour is ending,” she says. Daniel flinches almost imperceptibly – he’s not used to hearing her husband’s name. “He’s coming home in the spring.” She clears her throat. “For good this time.”

She hasn’t told the boys yet. It doesn’t even seem real to her yet, that after twenty years of being absent more often than not, she might never have to see her husband off to war again. Never have to wake up in the middle of the night again, reaching for a body that should be there and finding only an empty space. Daniel’s face is carefully blank, his fork tiny in the fold of one enormous fist. Cruel, maybe, to tell him while she’s sitting at his table and wearing his shirt, but there’s no good time to bring something like this up. Putting it off will only make it worse. “We can’t keep doing this,” she says, more for herself than for him. If she doesn’t say it out loud, she’ll never go through with it. “When he comes back, we can’t… we can’t.”

“Spring,” Daniel says, staring down at his plate. A muscle twitches in his cheek.

“Yes.”

“Going to be a cold winter this year,” he says, after an excruciating pause, and she reaches out, only to change her mind halfway through and stop. Her hand hovers between them.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Winters are intolerable alone. She has the same dream night after night, where her empty bed grows bigger and colder until she’s in the middle of nowhere, freezing to death in the endless snow. He doesn’t reply, and her next words come out sharper than she intends. “You knew this couldn’t last forever.” They’ve always had an expiration date. She’s been clear about that from the beginning.

“I know,” Daniel says, calm as ever. She wishes he was angry. The resignation in those two words hurts worse than any insult he ever could have hurled her way. “Just didn’t expect it to be over so soon.” He exhales through his nose, sets his fork down. “Should have.”

“We have winter.” Her fingertips rest on his bare arm, tentative. “If you want.”

It would be better to break it off now, clean and quick. Kinder. But perhaps Daniel has never wanted that particular kindness from her, and she doesn’t stop him when he gets up from the table and takes her hand. His bedroom huddles in the back of the house, sparse and plain. Most of it is taken up by the bed, thick quilts and a plush mattress piled on top of a sturdy oak frame he carved himself. When he picks her up and sets her on it, gentle as if she’s made of glass, Jodi is seized by a sudden melancholy. He’s a good man, Daniel. Kind, reserved, steady. Why her? Why, out of everyone, had he picked the one person who was guaranteed to hurt him?

She doesn’t ask. She’s pretty sure he wouldn’t tell her if she did.

In the morning, he’ll see her off before the sun comes up – she needs to be home before anyone might notice her sneaking through the square, and change her clothes before she picks Vincent up from Marnie’s. Sam will already be home, but he sleeps like the dead. She could throw herself a parade upon her return and he’d snore right through it. Daniel will look at her the way he always does before she goes, regretful and fond all at once, and she’ll hold onto him like it’s the last time. It will be, soon enough. But for tonight, the cabin is warm and his body covers hers, keeping out the cold. She sighs, and his beard rubs her bare skin, heat enveloping her. He murmurs something into the cradle of her throat. Maybe it’s that he loves her; maybe it’s that he wishes he didn’t. Maybe both are true. She cups his face and brings his lips to hers.


End file.
